


Love Doesn't Survive in Hydra

by quillingyousoftly



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Blood and Violence, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bottom Brock Rumlow, Consensual Sex, Heartbreak, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Manly Tears, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Slut Shaming, Spit As Lube, Verbal Humiliation, Workplace Relationship, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25768540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/pseuds/quillingyousoftly
Summary: What Jack saw froze him in place: Brock sitting in Pierce's lap, hiding his face in his neck, Pierce's hand sneaking between his legs.He feels like a fool now. Brock played him, plain and simple.
Relationships: Alexander Pierce/Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	Love Doesn't Survive in Hydra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SplinterCell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my endless source of inspiration. This is the first fic I wrote after my writer's block. It's mainly thanks to you 💗
> 
> The tag slut shaming refers to the person that's being raped, so take that under consideration before reading.

Jack thinks back to two hours ago, when he was initiated into Hydra's inner circle. He was so excited to finally stand among the important people, listen to top secret secrets, be ordered important tasks, and all that at the top of SHIELD's Triskelion, in Pierce's office. There was something dirty about it, the way getting caught masturbating was, and it made his first meeting of Pierce's most trusted people all the more thrilling.

Jack stood closer to the door, as Pierce's office was filled almost to the brink. It didn't stop him from intently listening to Pierce's every word, as everyone but him was silent, too fearful or respectful to even scratch their ass. Brock stood beside him as his right hand, his face hard and expressionless like it usually is. He looked pale against the night behind the large windows, but perhaps it was just the lighting.

Jack plays the end of the meeting before his eyes over and over in an almost masochistic way. Pierce dismissed them, and Jack turned away, but looked over his shoulder at Brock, eager to leave with him and talk on the way. But Brock wasn't looking his way; he was facing Pierce. Jack shrugged lightly to himself and decided to wait for him outside. He was nearing the door, now open as the small crowd filed out, when he heard a small yelp. He'd always recognize Brock's voice, and knowing it's him, he turned back to look. 

What he saw froze him in place: Brock sitting in Pierce's lap, hiding his face in his neck, Pierce's hand sneaking between his legs. Holding his breath, Jack would've stood in shock and watched if it wasn't for the people behind him forcing his way forward.

Walking down the corridor with his fellow conspirators, he watched their faces as they talked and joked. No one mentioned anything about what Jack just saw. Initially, he thought no one else noticed and walked to the locker room in a trance-like state.

His hand clenches on his locker door. The voices of other men merge into an intelligible buzz. No one's talking about Brock and Pierce, because it's not news to them.

He feels like a fool now. It's a shitty, but not unfamiliar feeling. It's so like him to see a piece of hot ass and immediately become infatuated. Normally, he would be brought back to earth quickly. Brock...

Brock played him, plain and simple.

All those smiles, the looks, the innocent touches, the opportunities Brock made for them to spend more time together, it was all a game to him, and Jack was his new toy, his break from working hard to score that promotion to commanding officer. Working hard in Pierce's lap, it seems.

"You going?"

Jack blinks and slowly turns to his right where Collins is watching him. He realizes he's been staring at the inside of his locker without as much as undoing his boots. 

"Yeah, I just..." He shrugs, unsure how to finish his sentence. He's shocked Brock fucked his way to the top? That his feelings were played with? No, not really.

Collins sends him a knowing smile. "I know the first meeting can be..." He frowns. "I'm not afraid to say spiritual."

"Yeah," Jack lies. "Something like that."

Collins pats him on the back on his way out. The door shuts behind him, and Jack realizes he's alone. Drawing a shaky breath, he sits on the bench, unties his boots, and pulls them off. He takes off his STRIKE shirt, unbuckles his belt, but doesn't find it in him to stand up to get his pants off. He leans against the cool wall, his slightly sweaty back sticking to it, and stares at the wall. Its ugly green paint is chipped in several places. He wonders how it happened. Did someone fight in here?

The door opens, and Jack tenses when he sees Brock enter. Brock realizes the room's not empty and hesitates, watching Jack with wary eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asks casually, like nothing's wrong.

Jack glares. "I don't see why I should explain myself to a guy who became a commander by begging for Pierce's cock like a little bitch."

Brock's too taken aback by his vicious words to react immediately. He blinks and opens his mouth like a fish out of water, then his face flushes, and Jack braces himself for a fight. But all Brock says is, "Go home, Jack."

He takes a towel from his locker and walks to the shower room. Jack listens to the water run with his eyes prickling. He pulls himself up, throws on his clothes haphazardly, and slips his feet into his tennis shoes. Brock's still under the shower when he leaves, and he tries not to wonder what he's washing off for so long.

He doesn’t realize his belt is still unbuckled until it rattles as he runs down the stairs.

*

Jack notices the first changes after a couple years or so. The first time, after a meeting with Pierce, Brock just leaves with the rest of his team. No one comments on that, especially not Jack, but he takes notice. The next few times he sees him with Pierce, it's obvious the Secretary isn't interested in Brock the way he used to be—there's a clear distance between them, and Pierce isn't really looking at him.

It makes Jack feel oddly triumphant, though he didn't win anything. It's satisfying to watch Brock act somewhat awkward around Pierce now and to think how he got used and dumped and all he got out of it was a promotion a couple years ago and not even much of a raise; Jack might have taken a peek at STRIKE's payroll a few times to make sure.

An opportunity to watch Brock suffer from the front row comes soon after he notices; Pierce schedules a meeting with just Brock and him. Instead of standing in a circle around the room, they sit in Pierce's comfy leather armchairs, Jack next to Brock, and Pierce across from them. While talking, Pierce avoids looking at Brock, so he watches Jack; Jack peers at Brock out of the corner of his eye, and Brock looks anywhere but at them.

Pierce discusses new roles for STRIKE in Hydra, and it lasts a while; the sky’s dark when they finally leave. Neither says a word; Brock's still avoiding his gaze and generally acting like he doesn't exist, but it doesn't stop Jack from staring at him defiantly.

Brock's shoulder muscles are taut when he takes off his shirt in the locker room. He must be aware of Jack drilling holes in the back of his skull with his eyes and braces himself for something. Jack’s gaze travels down to Brock's exposed hips; he remembers seeing finger-shaped bruises on them for all those months. Now his olive skin is unblemished. Jack toys with an idea of simply ignoring him. Letting him go with no comment. But the opportunity to mess with him is far too tempting.

"I'm not surprised Pierce got bored of you," he says casually, eyes fixed on the contents of his own locker, like he's commenting on the weather. "I'm surprised you managed to keep his attention for as long as you did. You must be hitting, what, fifty? No one likes a wrinkly ass."

Brock doesn't respond immediately. Jack chances a look; his lips are pursed.

"I'm your commander," he snarls finally. "You _will_ address me with respect."

Jack scoffs. "Everybody knows you're a commander only because you rode Pierce's wrinkly dick like a slut. You were begging for it until he took pity on you and let you touch him. Did you even manage to make him hard, or did he have to take those little pills—"

The force of the blow sends him a few steps back. He was too busy talking shit to even notice Brock approaching. He looks up at him now, stripped down to his underwear, flushed and seething with rage. When he lunges, somewhere in the back of his head he knows he can be fired for this, but what's more important now is to hurt Brock. Hurt him like he was hurt.

His fist connects with Brock's face, and he's vaguely aware of the pain that explodes in his knuckles where they collide with his sharp cheekbone. Brock turns to shove an elbow into his face, then kicks him, sending him stumbling back onto the lockers. Jack's pained growl drowns in the resulting thud. He pushes himself off them and lunges at Brock. Brock's head hits the wall hard, creating a new chip next to the old ones. His fist flies out, but Jack dodges it. Brock catches his next punch and wrenches his arm. Jack cries out, and Brock kicks him a few steps back, then jumps at him, but Jack’s ready; he dodges, then pokes Brock's eye. Brock snarls in unexpected pain, and Jack uses that short-lived distraction to charge with his entire body. The force of the hit has Brock sprawled on the ground, and Jack steps on his chest. 

"Stay down," he says, panting.

But Brock isn't done; he grabs Jack's ankle and pulls. Jack loses balance and falls hard on his ass. The exploding pain in his tailbone has him momentarily blinded, and Brock uses that to land another kick on his face. Jack spits out blood and, ignoring the dull ache in his jaw, grabs him by his legs and wrestles him back onto the floor. It's not easy, but he uses his size to make Brock's back hit the tiles, then climbs on top of him to keep him down. Brock thrashes this way and that to free himself, but to no avail. Jack holds his wrist down and digs his forearm into his throat.

"You're done," he tells him as Brock tries to pull his arm off his throat, his lips open wide in a desperate attempt to catch a breath. Jack tries very hard to ignore the fact his dick apparently decided their fight is a great foreplay. "Tap out and I'll let you go."

Brock kicks out instead, and it takes a lot of force for Jack to stay on top of him. Brock's jerky movements land his thigh between Jack's legs, and Jack can see the exact second he realizes what's going on; he freezes, his eyes widening just a tad, and he resumes fighting his way out from under Jack even more frantically. Jack doesn't let up his hold though; he must make Brock admit defeat while he has the upper hand.

"Stop fighting," he growls, pressing harder onto Brock's throat. Brock's free hand clenches on his bicep, but each shove is weaker than his last. Finally, he stops moving, his hand relaxes, and Jack eases up his forearm just enough for Brock to take a breath. 

Brock uses it to his advantage and almost throws Jack off himself. Jack bears down to keep him in place, and as Brock jerks under him, he feels something that is unmistakably Brock's own cock digging into his hip.

He's breathing hard once he finally manages to restrain Brock. He takes a moment to study him; his face is flushed and shining and his sweaty skin sticking to Jack's arms. He's turned his head sideways to avoid eye contact. Aside from his chest rising and falling in quick succession, he's stopped moving, and Jack assumes it's defeat clouding his glassy eyes.

Curious, he reaches down between them. Brock's eyes fall shut when he feels Jack’s big hand on his hard cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. A surprised sigh escapes him when Jack strokes it. 

"Look at you," Jack snarls. "Thirsty for anyone with a dick."

Brock glares at him. His eyes are almost as red as his cheeks. "Oh, so that's a gun in _your_ pants?"

"I am not a whore." But Brock has a point; Jack isn't really one to talk. He's tried to convince himself his erection is accidental, but he has to face the truth: he’s as eager to fuck Brock as said whore.

Pain explodes in the middle of his face, and he cries out as his hands shoot up to hold his throbbing nose. Brock throws him off, but before he can get up, Jack wrestles him onto his belly and climbs on top. He holds his head down with one hand, and shoves Brock's boxers off his ass.

"No," Brock growls, trying to crawl out from under Jack, but Jack moves with him.

"You want it," he reminds him, reaching between his legs and grabbing his heavy balls, making Brock shiver. "What are you scared of? That I'm gonna tell someone? Don't worry; everyone already knows what a slut you are."

He moves his hand onto Brock's meaty buttock and squeezes hard, digging his nails in. He sees Brock naked every day in the locker room, he knows how good his ass looks. Despite what he had said earlier, it’s a no-brainer Pierce wanted it. He shouldn't be so hard on himself for wanting it, too.

He spits into his hand and brings it to Brock's ass crack, rubs his wet fingers against his rim. Brock sighs and fidgets, like he's unsure if he wants to get closer or away.

"Gonna stay still for me like a good boy?" Jack asks, trying to keep malice out of his voice. Brock scoffs, but when Jack leans back to spit into his ass, his saliva pink with blood, he doesn't fight back.

"You'll pay for this," he says regardless.

"Will I?" Jack snarls. "How much do you take for an hour?" He grabs his balls in case Brock wanted to kick him for that remark. He shakes in silent anger, but doesn't move otherwise.

Jack's careful when he fingers him; as much as he wanted to hurt Brock when landing blows on him, he doesn't want to do it this way. Quite the opposite; he wants to show him what he has missed out on, what he could have had if he chose the man who cared about him over his career. 

Besides, he imagines getting dicked by his subordinate on a dirty locker room floor after being beaten in a fight is shameful enough without the sex being painful.

He spits onto Brock's ass crack and shoves his own pants down just enough to free his erection. He places it between Brock’s buttocks, letting him feel what exactly is going inside him. Brock's breath hitches every time his rim catches on Jack's head. He starts moving his hips in rhythm with Jack, clearly wanting it too much to keep up appearances. Jack leans back and enters Brock's tight hole with his next thrust. The pressure around his cockhead momentarily takes his breath away, and he pauses to let the situation truly sink in: yes, he's really fucking his commander he has had the hots for for years, it's not a fucking dream.

Brock groans when Jack bottoms out. Holding his hips up with one hand, he reaches for Brock's nape with the other to keep him in place.

"I'm surprised you're not totally ruined by now," he says. "Did Pierce even fuck you, or did he just let you suck him so you'd quit whining about it?"

Brock growls and bucks his hips, knocking breath out of Jack's lungs once again. It crosses his mind that maybe Brock likes it, maybe he gets off on being humiliated. 

"What did he make you do for that promotion, huh?" he says in between breaths, his thrusts slow but powerful. "Is his office where'd you disappear for hours? Did he make you keep his cock warm during his council meetings?"

Brock bucks under him with an angry snarl. Jack tightens his hold on him, preventing him from throwing him off. 

"He must have been curious how far you'd go for that commander position," he continues, hips speeding up. "Made you do all kinds of fucked up shit. Did he choke you? Is that what made you hard just now?"

Brock doesn't react this time, just takes it. No longer worried about holding him down, Jack sneaks his hand between Brock's thighs and tugs at his cock. He’s rewarded with a helpless moan. The tip leaves Jack's thumb wet.

"Did he ever fuck you in front of the team?" Jack's going to town on Brock's ass now, and Brock responds with needy whines, his ass slapping Jack's thighs with the force of his own thrusts. "Did he make you worship his cock while they watched?"

Jack’s mouth is going dry, his jaw still aches, his lip keeps oozing blood. It's getting harder to breathe, too hard to talk, and all he can do is keep fucking until his stomach tenses, his hips buck, and groaning, he fills Brock with warm cum. Brock's cock explodes in his hand, but Jack keeps stroking until his trembling lessens.

Then, he gets an elbow to the face.

He hears a crack this time, his nose throbs something terrible. His head hits the tiled floor hard, and everything turns black for a second or two.

When his vision clears, he finds himself lying curled on his side, a small puddle of blood by his lips. A bit further away, he can see drops of clear liquid, more blood—but is it his or, somehow, Brock's, he's not sure—and farther to the right, a pool of cum. The locker room is quiet, and Jack realizes he’s alone. His eyes begin to burn, and he takes in a shaky breath, then covers his mouth to muffle a sob. 

If he's still not over Brock after all this time, he's not sure he ever will be.

*

He sees new finger-shaped bruises on Brock's body next time they're in the locker room again, but this time they were left by him. They're surrounded by their teammates, Brock's ignoring him, and Jack tells himself he doesn't care. He knows the only thing Brock could feel when looking at him would be satisfaction at the yellowing swelling around his nose. He glances at the part of the floor where they had left all the bodily fluids. The floor had been scrubbed clean, and Collins stands on that space now, changing. Did the cleaning person wonder about what happened? Did they suspect it was the commander of STRIKE taken by his subordinate? 

Thinking about it only makes something unpleasant stir in his chest, so Jack tries to focus on the upcoming day instead. Pierce had sent him a coded message, inviting him to his office. From what he had gathered, they'll be alone, and his hands sweat at the thought. He can't help but worry Pierce somehow knows about what happened on the locker room floor last week, though as far as he knows, the room isn't bugged. 

Mainly, though, he's worried he'll be sent on a solo suicide mission. He does his best not to let it show when he enters Pierce's office, making his face into a perfect stone mask.

"Ah, Agent Rollins. Please, come over," Pierce greets him from his leather armchair.

Jack reaches the seat across, but before he can sit, he hears, "Closer, Agent Rollins."

Jack eyes the love seat next to Pierce. But he barely takes a step towards it before Pierce repeats, " _Closer._ "

Jack looks at him, then at his closest surroundings. A chill crawls up his spine when he realizes the only thing closer is Pierce's lap. On tense legs, he approaches him. Pierce reclines further in the armchair as he watches him slowly lower himself onto his lap, the way he had seen Brock so many times before.

"Good boy," Pierce croons, wiggling his hand between Jack's closed thighs.

Jack shuts his eyes, trying to calm his turning stomach, his nausea caused not only by the old Secretary of Defense palming his crotch, but also himself. Because in this moment, he fully realizes what he always knew, but was too angry and scared to admit to himself.

Brock didn’t ask for any of this.


End file.
